


Over.

by FormulaFerrari



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormulaFerrari/pseuds/FormulaFerrari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is done. Over. There is nothing left to be tried. All his energy and efforts… Wasted. How could it have happened again?</p><p>Set just after the Singapore Grand Prix, 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over.

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of these characters and the events that take place are not real

It is done. Over. There is nothing left to be tried. All his energy and efforts… Wasted. Nothing more to do. Only an extortionate amount of luck can make it possible. And luck has evaded him for the last three years. Memories of Brazil from last year spring to his mind. How can someone be hit on the first corner but still retain the title? Belgium. That’s where it had ended last year. Hit on the first corner. The irony of that hurts more. There just seems to be nothing left of him. He feels exasperated. Not enough luck. It appears it is never really on his side.

Alone in the Ferrari motor home, Fernando sits on the sofa in his private room. Its window looks out over the electrically lit track of Singapore, but he isn’t looking at it. His stares purposefully at a spot on the floor with his back curved over and his shoulders forwards. His hands are clenched into fists pushed into the sofa beside him. Thoughts of failure, again, fill his mind. He is thankful he’s alone. He doesn’t have to pretend he is strong and hopeful, pretend he is determined to push himself, pretend he is able to win. He can just sit and let his emotions out; he knows now, it is over. 

Hurt and angry. Upset and furious. How could it have happen again? He had cracked talking to the media. The constant questions of “Can you beat Vettel?” and he had succumbed to the truth. No. No he cannot. Not without serious luck and at least three DNFs for Vettel out of the next six races. It is over; he is broken and has let Sebastian know that that is the case. He won’t be surprised if Newey is absent from Korea, working on the 2014 car. On top of the sorrowful news of another lost championship Mark and he have also been awarded a reprimand each for their ‘Taxi Ride’. This is nothing too bad for him, but it has rewarded Mark a ten-place grid penalty for Korea. The only car that can probably get close to Vettel would be stuck in, at the highest, eleventh to start. He tries to find the bright side – now he is no longer around Mark and doesn’t have to pretend that this isn’t a help to him personally – at least there is one less car standing in the way of him and Vettel. But it is too much to ask for good luck, chances are Vettel will be two seconds ahead of second place by the third corner. 

He runs his hands through his hair and falls back into the sofa, exasperating and covering his face. He is glad Dasha wasn’t able to make the race. He knows she would just be trying to console him now and persuade him there was still hope. He loves her for her undying support, but he cannot help but think that currently, this would just piss him off more and he would unfairly get annoyed at her. He has already received her text of congratulations and how proud she is of him for picking up Mark after the race. Another had followed swiftly after the public announcement of their reprimands and Mark’s grid penalty, expressing how she feels this is entirely unfair. However, a third has not come after he had announced to the press that he believes the championship is over. Maybe she can’t think of what to say. Perhaps she realises that her support won’t change his mind. 

There were a million other things he should be thinking about, should be doing, but he can’t bring himself to. Alone, he is free to express exactly how pissed he is that the cocky German has done it again. Last year it should have been him, not Vettel. That car. It can only be that car. Nothing Vettel did made him stand out as an exceptional driver. It was the flawless design of Newey that made him impossible to beat. A thirty-second cushion to his win. His Ferrari should have been all over his Red Bull, but every time he thought there was a chance, he managed to slip away. Fifteen laps from the end and he had resolved to try to hold onto second place and not battling for the win… And now he has done that in the Championship too. Andrea's words are still echoing in his ears. Protect your tyres. Protect your tyres. There is a fifteen second gap that is increasing. We can’t box again. Protect your tyres. He had meant stop fighting for the race. He meant it was over. Over in Singapore. Catching up with him after the race, he knew Andrea understood that the battle is over too. Unanimous agreement throughout Ferrari makes it clear that they no longer think it is possible. The agreement with Stefano to travel to Maranello before Korea to work on the 2014 car shows the end of the line. The puncture on the straight. Everyone knows this fight is over. 

Fresh anger boils inside him as he stands. With a flash of red he grabs his drink bottle off the side and throws it across the room in frustration. Unfortunately, it flies straight into a lamp, which topples off of its table and crashes onto the floor. Another moment of bad luck. Three inches either side and he would have been clear of destruction. He will have to replace that. It won’t be much, but it just adds another layer of crap to the misery that is today. He walks across the room and begins to throw his things into his track bag. His race suit and boots stay in the room to be packed away with his helmet, but his personal items that he brought with him end up being tossed into the bag with frustration. As he goes to leave, he places fifteen euros on the table where the lamp had been. That will cover it. A frown is glued onto his face and he doesn’t seem to be able to remove it. He is hiding his hurt subconsciously with his frustration. Catching himself in the mirror, he thinks that his team shirt and hat are too obvious – journalists everywhere will root him out and he can’t face it. Not today. He extracts a plain black hoddie from his bag and pulls it on. He will wait until he leaves to hide behind its disguise. 

As he walks out of his room, he realises only a short amount of time must have passed from him breaking the lamp to leaving. Everyone who is in the motor home has stopped in the middle of what they were doing to look over at him, obviously curious what the smash was. He doesn’t have time for it and he isn’t in the mood. 

“Mi dispiace,” he says as he pulls his bag onto his shoulder. No one says anything, but they all watch him as he leaves, heading towards the stairs to the lower level. Most people are still in the garage packing up, but there are always journalists walking up and down near the motor homes, waiting to catch one of the drivers at a vulnerable moment. With this in mind, he zips up his hoodie and pulls the hood over his head. Keeping his head low, he walks out of the side exit and heads between motor homes until he is behind them and there are less people around. 

He walks to his car without being stopped by anyone and not having to wear a fake expression. The silence ebbs around him and he knows that he can’t sleep. Even if he wanted to. But not yet, anyway, he has to try and keep his body clock as close to European time as possible and it is only around four o’clock at home. The seven-hour change would horribly mess him up and he couldn’t afford to be off his game. Not with the Championship still undecided-

He freezes with his hand on the handle of his car. No. It is over. It will drain him if he let himself believe for one moment that he still had a chance. It has been decided. Sixty points is too much of a gap. It is unrecoverable. Over. It is over. 

Fernando pulls the door open with far too much force and lobs his bag into the back seat. He slams it, startling the few other people around him, but no one seems bothered by the man getting frustrated with his car. Thankful of not being discovered, but still in a foul mood, Fernando rips open the driver door and falls in behind the wheel. Slamming it shut, he holds the wheel and just stares forwards. It takes about three seconds for his head to collapse onto the steering wheel and him to succumb back into a state of unawareness. He feels as if the last ten minutes hadn’t happened. A loop is occurring in his head and he is re-doing the conversation he has just had with himself in the motor home. This time his emotion is clear though. No conflict of two different feelings. He is distraught. He is dejected.

He is defeated. 

There is a tap on his window. He knows it can only be someone from Ferrari; no one else saw where he went. What did they want? He had fulfilled his contract, spoken to the press, been a good boy and said all the right things, holding back his anger and what he would have really like to say. What could they possibly want from him now? He breathes slowly and fixes and emotionless expression on his face. Feeling composed, he lifts his head and looks at who is waiting for him. The person outside his window cannot be identified. They are leaning their back against his window and all that can be seen is the red of their jumper. He puts the key in the ignition and opens the electric window. As the man feels the window slide away from his back, he pushes himself off the car and turns to face Fernando. A small sense of relief fills Fernando as he recognises the face of his race engineer, Andrea Stella. Andrea leans closer to the window and Fernando puts on a small smile. 

“Nice hoodie,” Andrea says, noting that the Ferrari driver is not branded in his normal red.

“It was a bit more discrete,” Fernando says, lowering his hood and removing his hat. He ruffles up his hair and returns to looking forward. Andrea crouches by the car, resting his arms on the window frame, trying, like he always has to, to read through the emotionless mask his driver wears. 

“Don’t let the sponsors see,” He jokes. No response. Fernando acts as if he didn’t say anything. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Fernando states in a focused tone. Another pause. Andrea thinks back to the state he found Fernando’s room in when he initially went looking for him. He was not fine. 

“That why you broke the lamp?” A small blush of embarrassment colours Fernando’s cheeks. 

“That was accidental,”

“But you’re still fine,” Andrea concludes. Fernando knows he knows he is lying. There is no point in trying to continue the charade. He sighs, closing his eyes. 

“What do you want?” Fernando asks, a bit too harshly, but Andrea expects it. It is not the first time they have been in this situation in the Championship. But before, it has always looked as though it might turn around. He feels sympathy for his friend, but he knows Fernando will not want to see it. He cuts to the point. 

“Stefano wants to see you,” Fernando sighs.

“Can’t it wait?” A small whine can be detected in his voice.

“I don’t think so,” Fernando sighs again. So much for hoping he could get away unspotted. He looks over to Andrea. The pleading is clear in Fernando’s eyes, but Andrea knows Fernando is unaware of it. Seeing his mask is slipping, he decides what to do and - in his mind - he expects that there will be a few more broken things on Fernando’s hotel bill. “Just go, I’m sure it’s not that important,” Andrea says, patting Fernando on the shoulder. 

“Grazie,” Fernando says, the small smile returning to his face. 

“Just… expect a call in the morning, I think he just wants to check up,” Andrea says, though Fernando knows his words are coded. After four years of racing with Andrea they have developed coded speech that only the two of them can decipher. But Fernando knew this meant that Stefano and Luca were watching him, making sure nothing like the slip up in Hungry was repeated. Fernando nods and with one last pat of the shoulder, Andrea returns to the team, claiming that he couldn’t find Fernando as he had probably already left and suggesting they call him in the morning. Fernando closes the window and starts up his black Fiat 500 that he hired so he could drive himself from the track to the hotel. The almost silent engine gives him the best chance of a quiet get away, and without being stopped once, he is on the road heading to his hotel.

As he drives, all of the wasted opportunities from the season return to his mind. Malaysia. Bahrain. Monaco. Germany. Hungary. All of them had been highly successful for Vettel, but not for him. His bad luck had hit him on five races, one of them resulting in a DNF. Vettel, however, had only struck bad on one race: Britain. This ratio of good to bad luck was not in Fernando’s favour, and it was clear to see how those sixty points had been made. There are still one hundred and fifty points up for grabs, but it will take a miracle for them to not all wind up going to Vettel. But one bad race isn’t enough to recover the gap. It is too big. And Fernando knows it. 

When he gets back to the hotel, he slips in unnoticed. With his bag over his shoulder and his hood back on, he keeps his head low as he heads for the elevator. A lot of the other drivers use this hotel, and he is hoping he will have some luck today and not bump into any of them. No such thing holds for him. Standing alone in the elevator initially, he unzips his bag and put his Ferrari cap in the top. Just as he reaches the ground floor – the car park was two floors below – the doors open and Sebastian walks in. At first, he is clueless who is in the elevator with him, caught up in his own thoughts, but luck is defiantly against Fernando today. Sebastian takes a double take.

“Fernando?” he asks and as the doors shut. Fernando pushes his hood off his head. No. No luck today. “Woah, I almost didn’t recognise you. Not without your red,” Sebastian jokes, having no idea how much hatred Fernando feels for this guy. Fernando cursed at himself in his head. He had taken every precaution to avoid this situation. Right up until he took the elevator. 

He should have taken the stairs. 

“I was cold,” Fernando says bluntly, but the German doesn’t pick up on it. 

“I’d have thought you would have had a Ferrari jumper for that,” Sebastian muses, looking down at his own Red Bull jumper. Fernando looks up at the red number that determines what floor you are on, ignoring Vettel’s comment, not wanting this conversation to continue. “What a race that was today, I was being told to push, which is a first. I though you were close; I was just waiting to see you in my rear mirrors.” Fernando cannot work out if he is antagonising him or being genuine. He decides on the latter to stop himself becoming agitated at a possibly innocent comment. 

“You were too quick for me today, for everyone,” Same tone. Staring at the floor numbers, willing it to reach four quickly. It seems to be the slowest elevator in the world. And he would know. 

“A fluke. It won’t happen again,” Sebastian brushes Fernando’s comment away as if it is irrelevant. Fernando bites back his retort of listing every race that Sebastian has had a dominant lead and no one appeared to be near him. Not even his teammate. 

“Shame about Mark,” Fernando adds out loud from his train of thought, curious of Sebastian’s response. He glances over at the German briefly before looking back at the numbers. Two. Sebastian’s cool, charming air evaporates as he pushes his hands into his pockets. 

“Technical failure, nothing could have been done,” He replies, not looking Fernando’s way. 

“I was talking about the reprimand, and how that means he will have a ten-place grid penalty in Korea,” Fernando says casually, still watching the numbers. Three.

“Oh,” Another quick glance. Sebastian seems to be uncomfortable at the subject topic, worried about what Fernando might say next. “I didn’t see him,” Sebastian deliberately looking up at the numbers also, avoiding Fernando’s gaze.

“Good thing I did,” Fernando says as the Elevator begins to slow. Sebastian looks at him confused.

“What do you mean?” 

“At least now there will be one less person able to challenge you for pole,” He claps Sebastian’s shoulder as the elevator dings, reaching floor four and Fernando steps out, leaving Sebastian alone. He walks down the corridor and doesn’t turn back. Reaching his room, he extracts the small white card from his bag and allows himself access to the solitude of his room. He dumps his bag on the chair just inside the room and moves over to the bed. Practically falling onto it, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Local time, it’s 00:13 but that means that at home it is 17:13. At least four more hours before he can go to sleep. His flight is at three o’clock in the afternoon local time, eight o’clock European time, meaning it would get him in Italy around 18:00 Italian time. He would leave now if he could, but that would mean loosing an entire night of sleep and it wasn’t worth the hassle. The twelve-hour flight will be a killer, but it is something he is used to. 

With the knowledge of it being about five o’clock at home, he knows Dasha will call soon. That will be helpful; at least an hour can be filled talking to her. As he lies, waiting for her to call, he focuses on thinking about her and not another year of failed attempts. He lets her fill his mind as he lies with his eyes closed. It is only when the beeping to his left startles him that he realises he has dosed off. In a dazed state, he pushes himself into a sitting position retrieving his discarded phone from beside him. He rubs his eyes as he slides the answer button registering that it is now 00:46. He’s been dosing for about half an hour. As Dasha’s face appears on his screen, he can’t help but smile. 

“Hi,” she smiles at him. He just looks at her for a while, how beautiful she is and how lucky he is to have her. She has a red beanie hat on and is beaming back at him. It was amazing how he could be so unlucky in one aspect of his life, but has all the luck in the world in another. She could have chosen anyone in that bar in Shanghai a year ago, but she chose him. His memories of that first encounter always make him smile. The way she had no idea who he was just made her more magical. 

“Hey, nice hat,” he smiles back, wishing now she was here with him. 

“That was the colour of today’s shoot. Everything I wore had this red in it somewhere.”

“Really?”

“Yeah - Ferrari Red - that’s what I called it,” She blushes slightly which just make Fernando miss her more. She hates missing his races, but sometimes their work clashes and there is nothing to be done. “They told me I could keep the hat - I thought the colour was a good omen,” Her voice fades slightly at the end of her sentence, but she regains face so quickly Fernando barely realises. “How are you?”

“Not bad, yourself?”

“I’m good… Congratulations on your race, it was amazing,” he freezes, not knowing how to respond. He can see she is treading lightly with her words; she doesn’t want to upset him. 

“Lucky the tyres didn’t fall of their cliff,” He says, not knowing what else to add. He can see in her face she wants to address his Championship hopes, but he doesn’t want to get into it. Not now. She fiddles with the edge of her hat as if trying to decide what to say next. Fernando breaks the silence ebbing between them. 

“So how was your shoot?” He asks, lying down on his side and resting his head on his right hand, propping himself up on his elbow. His left hand holds his phone steadily in front of him as he listens to his girlfriend talk him through her day, lost in her gorgeous eyes. 

“…It was beautiful, but I wish you could have been here… everything was just reminding me of you and I missed you,”

“I missed you too, Cariño,” he says, making her smile widen at the use of her pet name. Spanish. Of course it was in Spanish. Dasha loves it when he speaks Spanish to her, and he loves it when she returns his native language to him. To hear the words he understands clearest from her lips makes him fall in love with her all over again.

“Te amo,” she sighs, mirroring his body position. 

“Ídem” Fernando sighs, wanting more than anything to have her with him and feel her warmth. To gently kiss her as they shared these words. But he can’t. More bad luck.

“So…” Her face shows she is trying to work out how to ask her question without being blunt and Fernando reads that.

“Just ask, Cariño,” he suggests softly. 

“How was your race?” She avoids his eyes briefly, but when he responses in an unchanged tone she relaxes and looks back at him. 

“Not bad, as good as it could have been, I suppose,” 

“It looked great from where I was looking,”

“Not from my seat,” Fernando murmurs more to himself than Dasha. She doesn’t hear him.

“Huh?”

“I said it was tough,” He smiles weakly. He doesn’t really want to recount every moment of the race, but he knows she wants to discuss it with him, just like he wanted to discuss her day.

“Your start was magical. From seventh to third in a matter of seconds! I was cheering so loud, I'm surprised you didn’t hear me from there,” Fernando can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm for his start – in his opinion, the only good thing about his race. 

“Shame Nico couldn’t hold back Sebastian,” He muses with a dark hint to his tone. Dasha catches it and tries to avert the subject.

“But you still beat him – Nico, I mean – and no one was even close to you at the end. You had it secured,” she smiles again and he can’t believe how she is making him feel good about what had been a pretty disastrous race. He just wants to listen to her change his reserved, tyre-preserving racing style into the work of a genius. “Not even Kimi or Mark could get close to you, and he was on a charge!”

“It’s a shame about him not finishing though,”

“I know, but it was an amazing moment when you picked him up. Everyone loved it! It’s an absolute joke that you both got penalised,” Fernando agrees with her to some extent. Mark shouldn’t have got anything, but thinking back to the moment, he had stopped in a rather stupid place. He hadn’t really thought about it, he had just seen Mark waving at him and he slowed down. But Mark’s grid penalty for Korea was a little harsh.

“He told me Sebastian just drove straight past him,”

“I’m not surprised, Sebastian hates him, doesn’t he?”

“I think hate is a strong word, Dash,” 

“OK then, strongly dislikes,”

“I don’t think Sebastian has any reserved feelings for Mark, Mark dislikes him, but that’s understandable, I mean, you saw what happened in Malaysia,” Dasha nods and Fernando continues. “I think Sebastian just sees everyone as someone he must pass on the race track. I suppose we all do,”

“Do you?”

“To some extent, they’re not just blurs to me, I know who I’m challenging,” There was a pause as the topic was rounded off. Dasha still has that hint in her eyes of a topic she wants to get to, but doesn’t know how to bring it up. Luckily for her, Fernando can’t see it there. She takes a stab in the dark.

“Korea next then,” she smiles, but Fernando gives her a suspicious look.

“Yeah…”

“Nothing of it, I’m just clarifying,” she lies, shaking her boyfriends suspicions. 

“Do you know if you’re able to come yet?”

“I’m not sure,”

“But you’re still meeting me in Italy tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” They share a loving smile that makes them both pain to be in each other’s arms. The intimacy that each other’s presence would bring to this conversation is almost killing them. The casual hand gesture of tucking Dasha’s hair behind her ear, the soft squeezes of encouragement when they stumbled onto difficult topics, the gentle kisses at moments like this…

“It’s quite short notice, you heading back to Italy tomorrow,” Dasha mentions, forcing them both to the realisation that they are communicating through a screen. Sadness sets slightly in both of their stomachs.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, there was a change of plan,” Fernando says, trying to avoid this topic, as he knows it will lead to other discussions

“No problem, I have a shoot over there next weekend anyway,” she smiles, now determined to get to the topic she really wants to discuss. This wasn’t something she wanted to text; she knew he would ignore the message and pretend he never received it. “Are you going over to help work on the car?”

“In a sort,” Fernando says, instantly regretting it. Why could he not just say yes? That is what he’s doing… Just not the current car. But he can’t lie to her.

“What do you mean?” she asks, already knowing the answer, but grabbing onto his slip up like a lifeline anyway.

“I’m not working on the current car,”

“Next years?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, that doesn’t mean anything. You know as well as everyone else how important it is to get ahead for next year. Maybe they’re just-“

“No, Dasha, we’re just working on next years car. There is no split. You heard the interviews,” And here they are, on the brink of a conversation Fernando does not want to have with Dasha. It is too late now; he has already thrown himself into it, and he knows she won’t let that go. 

“I did,” She sighs, knowing he probably doesn’t want to talk about it. But she wants to; she wants to make him feel better. “I think your giving up too easily, there is still six races left-”

“-And unless he retires out of at least three of them, I’ve got no chance. Dash, you’ve seen how reliable that car is,”

“Currently. That could all change,”

“Highly unlikely,” he exasperates, rubbing his hand over his face. “I bumped into him on my way up here tonight,” 

“Who, Sebastian?”

“Yeah. He got in the lift,”

“What did he say?”

“He said he thought it was a fluke,” Fernando adds, unsure as to why. He knows it will only fuel Dasha into thinking he still has a chance of winning. 

“Perhaps he’s right,”

“No, Dasha. Don’t-”

“Why not, Fernando?” she has sat up on her side of the screen, but he has just fallen onto his back, using his right hand to cover his face. “There are still six races, still six chances he could have a problem or someone could accidently take him out of the race-”

“No one will take him out of the race; he’s always five seconds ahead and clear of everyone by time the second lap starts,” he snaps unintentionally. He doesn’t want to get angry with Dasha, but her stubbornness to not be realistic makes it hard for her words not to anger him. 

“There are still six chances you could win,”

“Not with that car around there isn’t. Dash, it’s over. The fans know it, Ferrari knows it and I know it. There is nothing more to be done. I’m going to Maranello tomorrow to work on the 2014 car. 2014. They aren’t even going to try and improve this year’s because it is over. He’s uncatchable. Untouchable. Whatever you want to say, he is going to be a four-time world champion probably by the time my feet hit American soil. And the horrible part is, there is nothing I can do to stop it!” He realises now that he has sat himself up in his anger. He can also feel the tears in his eyes. Dasha’s sympathetic face doesn’t help and he feels guilty instantly for getting annoyed. 

“But, he still might-”

“-Might what, Dasha? Not finish one race? Have a mechanical problem? Find out his win was a fluke today? Not possible; this isn’t the first time it has happened. Canada. Belgium. Italy. Singapore. He is always first and I am always trailing behind in his wake. It’s over and anyone thinking otherwise is out of their mind,”

“So you think I'm out of my mind for trying to support you?” The sympathy in her voice is gone. He doesn’t care if he has annoyed her; he needs her to stop being delusional. 

“No, not for wanting me to do well. But if you honestly think there is still a chance I will become World Champion this year you’re delusional!”

“I’m delusional now because I don’t want you to give up?” They are fighting. He knew it would come to this and he hasn’t tried to stop it. He has just let it happen, just like he has let Vettel run away with the Championship, throwing away any chance of preventing the inevitable.

“I’m not giving up, Dash, I’m being realistic! What’s the point in fighting if you’ve already lost?”

“But you haven’t lost! You still might-”

“This is ridiculous! I'm not going to win. He is. Again. It’s not fair and it’s not right, but he is. Nothing can be changed so why must I waste my time and effort just to make you think there is still hope. There isn’t. It is over!” He is snarling at her now, and he knows it isn’t fair. But she is still protesting with him and every time she does he just sees red. He can see the silent tear tracks on her face, but he turns away, not wanting them to guilt him into taking back his words; he knows he is right. She has got to understand. 

“What’s ridiculous is you! You go around, telling your fans to fight to the end and here you are crumpling at the first hurdle!”

“This isn’t the first hurdle, Dash, it’s the last bloody brick wall!”

“Today you announced to everyone who supports you and believes in you that you had given up! How are they supposed to believe in you if you don’t believe in yourself? You affect so many people because of how strong you are and how you don’t turn from a challenge. And now how are they all going to see you? Not as a hero, but as a hypocrite!” Her words are harsh and a low blow. How dare she accuse him of turning his back on his morals! He is a man of pride and he never took his fans for granted. But if they don’t already know this fight is over, they are delusional too. 

“You see me as a hypocrite now?” Anger is burning off of his words and he can see how upset she is on the other end of the phone.

“No, Nando, I’m sorry, that came out wrong-”

“Just like everything else you have said tonight,” He mumbles, but this time, she hears him the first time. 

“What does that mean?” His filter that made him think about things before he said them has disintegrated.

“It means you’re not thinking, Dash! You’re just saying these things because you think you can make it all better, but you can’t! It’s over and the sooner you realise it, the better. I can’t talk to you whilst your hormonal like this; your naivety is driving me crazy,”

“Hormonal? Are you implying-?”

“Why else are you being so rash?” He spits. As he does, his filter kicks back in. What a stupid thing to say. Why would any man go to the extent of accusing his girlfriend it was her time of the month in a heated argument? He feels wretched instantly, and assumes Dasha isn’t in the mood for his apology. 

“Dash, I'm sorry, I-”

“I think you’ve made yourself pretty clear,” She says, holding back what is clearly a fresh batch of tears. Fernando feels like a prize dick. 

“No, I haven’t! It’s been a rough day and-”

“And you think it’s OK to take it out on me?”

“No, Dash, of course not, I just need you to understand. I can’t go around pretending there is still hope when there isn’t,” he finishes softly, but he can see it’s not enough. 

“No, it’s fine. I understand,” she starts sharply. “I get it. It’s over, Fernando. It’s Over.” Her eyes show nothing but disgust as she stresses the word he has repeated so much. But now he doesn’t understand. What is she implying? What does she mean?

“Dash, what are you-?”

“Good Night, Fernando,” she says sharply and ends the call. The three beeps from his phone and the disappearance of Dasha’s tear stained face are the last things that remain of their heated argument. What did she mean was over? He hopes she finally understands his Championship fight is done, but his gut instinct tells him he has just thrown away the only piece of good luck in his life…

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Fernando wakes up still wearing his clothes from last night on top of his made bed. Pushing himself up, he sits back on his knees and examines the room around him. Shattered pieces of debris cover the floor: glass, vases, lamps and other heavy items that were obviously lobbed. After his conversation with Dasha, his anger got the better of him, and he was so angry with himself, he lost it – just as he had in the motor home last night. He grabs his phone from beside where he was just sleeping and clicks it to unlock it. Nothing. Dasha is obviously ignoring his messages, not wanting to forgive him. He doesn’t blame her really; he had said some pretty bad stuff, calling her delusional and claiming she was hormonal. He won’t be surprised if he never saw her again. A sharp shot of sadness bolts through him as he thinks that that might be true and that that could have been that last time he ever spoke to Dasha. He so badly wants to apologise. 

He knows she is ignoring his messages, but he picks up the phone anyway. He finds her name on his caller list and clicks on it making the phone dial her. Two rings in and he is sent to voicemail. Too quick. She has rejected his call. He gets her voicemail.

“Hi, you’ve reached Dasha Kapustina, I’m unable to take your call right now, but please leave your message, company, if applicable, and number after the tone and I will try and get back to you as soon as I can. Gracias!” Her voice just makes him feel ten times worse about what he has done. He doesn’t even think about putting the phone down; she needs to hear him apologise. No amount of text messages could truly convey what he wants to say, but he knows his voice can make the truth in his words real. 

“Dash, it’s me, Fernando. I know you know that and I know that you are mad at me right now. I don’t blame you. To be honest, I'm mad at me too. I just need you to know that I and so sorry. I crossed a line I should have never got near and I feel horrible about the whole thing. I understand if you don’t reply or ever want to see me again. I suppose I am such a mess right now, it’s not fair to drag you with me. You are such a wonderful and strong person, Dash, and you deserve someone who won’t throw your support back in your face. Te Amo, Cariño, eres perfecto, no cambia,” 

He hangs up knowing there is nothing more he can do. Getting up, he grabs his discarded track bag and throws it over his shoulder. He retrieves his already packed suitcase from the wardrobe and checks the time on his phone – 13:43. Without a second look at the destruction he is leaving behind him, he pulls one hundred and fifty euros out of his wallet and places them on the side table. This is becoming a trend of his. He pushes his wallet back into his bag and leaves the hotel room, trying to think of anything that does not make him want to cry. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The flight to Italy is horrible. Twelve hours of a screaming child, a mother trying to console it and turbulence. He had tried to blend into the background, but that didn’t stop people coming over to him and asking for his autograph or a photo whenever they could. Didn’t they understand he might not be in the mood? But he smiled painfully and signed and posed and accepted people’s thanks with a “No problem,” It is one of the worst flights he has ever had, but he thinks that may be about more pressing matters than just some rain clouds. 

Once he is in the arrivals lounge, another pang of pain jolts through him. This is where he is supposed to meet Dasha. He doesn’t know if she is coming or not, but he bets on the latter. Nevertheless, he takes a seat on one of the vacant chairs telling himself that he will give her half an hour before he decides she is not coming, implying their relationship is over. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping it on his knee and spinning it in his hand. He clicks it to unlock it every now and then, only to be greeted by his blank lock screen and a gorgeous picture of Dasha staring back at him. Five minutes pass. Then Ten. Fifteen. It reaches twenty and his hope begins to fade. Of course she isn’t coming. Why would she waste her time on him? A hypocrite who gave up. He is nothing but truly a failure. And he knows her words were true, even if she hadn’t meant them. He pushes his hands over his face and falls back into the chair. How can he have been so stupid? Letting the best thing in his life slip away. It is his fault. Only his. To pass the blame would be cowardly. 

He feels someone sit beside him, but he doesn’t care to look. He sits forwards, clearing his throat, hoping that his eyes are not too red from the fact he is fighting with inevitable tears. He leans forwards to retrieve his bags. As he goes to stand, a gentle touch on his wrist make him stop. As he turns, his eyes fall on the beautiful face of his girlfriend and a tear escapes from his eye. He falls back into his chair. 

“I didn’t think you would come,” he says, trying to subtle brush away the rouge tear on his face. It’s not working. Dasha gently cups the side of his face with her hand and brushes it away.

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

“Because I was a total arse,” He murmurs, trying to turn away from her, ashamed of himself.

“You were angry, I understand. I was angry too, I said some things I regret,”

“Not as bad as me,”

“Fernando,” the softness of which she speaks his name makes him turn back to her. The warmth in her eyes is radiating and he can’t believe how lucky he is to have her. He was on the verge of loosing her. Most other women would have gone. Not her. She was magical. Not truly caring if he won or lost, just as long as he is happy. 

“Te amo, yo nunca podría dejarte ir,” she finishes. Caught up in this beautiful moment, he gentle brushes her lips with his. He rests his forehead on hers and just stays with her, close and in love. 

“I am so lucky,” he murmurs into her face. She smiles and looks up at him. “Usted, usted es suerte mu, mi única, mi todo,” he cups her face gentle and kisses her again. He kisses her forehead tenderly and pulls her close to him into and embrace.

“Usted siempre es mi campeón,” she whispers in his ear as she falls gracefully into his embrace. And, for now, he would let it go. She is here and that is what matters. If she wants to believe he may still win, what does that matter? He knows it won’t matter either way; she just wants to see him happy. And with him being distraught, it will only lead to more pain for her. So what is wrong in believing in that two per cent chance? Even if it doesn’t happen, why not give it your all? In the end, that is what matters. Six races left and everything is left to play for. As long as he has his number one support with him, who says it’s not possible? At the end of the day, Fernando would always be Dasha’s champion. 

~The End~

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Dasha gets up and stands in front of Fernando, holding her hands out to him.  
“Come on, lets go build you a championship winning car,” she smiles. Fernando takes her hands and helps her pull him up. He swings his track bag over his right shoulder and takes the handle of his suitcase in his right hand, taking hold of Dasha’s right hand with his left.  
“What about this year?” He asks, looking down into her elegant face.  
“Who knows, anything could happen,” she smiles up at him again and he puts his arm around her briefly pulling her close and kissing her forehead. Yes, she is right. Anything could happen.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> (Italian) Mi dispiace – I’m sorry  
> (Italian) Grazie – thank you  
> Cariño – love/darling  
> Te Amo – I love you  
> Ídem – ditto/the same  
> Gracias – thank you  
> Te Amo, Cariño, eres perfecto, no cambia - I love you, baby, you're perfect, do not change  
> Te Amo, yo nunca podría dejarte ir – I love you, I could never let you go.  
> Usted, usted es mi suerte, mi única, mi todo – You, you are my luck, my one, my everything  
> Usted siempre es mi campeón – You are always my champion


End file.
